As All the Heavens Were a Bell
by kayjay216
Summary: Voldemort, too, knows what Harry will miss most.


**Author's Notes**: Oh boy. This one's a doozy. This fic fits in the same "universe" as some fics I've previously posted.

Recommended reading order:  
This, and My Heart Beside  
Colors Seen By Candlelight  
As All the Heavens Were a Bell (this fic)  
Consign to Thee, and Come to Dust

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

Again, thanks to those that have read and/or left reviews: you made a rather icky, sticky weekend much more bearable.

* * *

On December 21, Ron Weasley does not come home. 

For the first few hours, Hermione doesn't worry. Ron works as a general dogsbody for the Tutshill Tornadoes. His job, Hermione thinks, consists mainly of doing the things that no one else wants to do, but he loves it. He and some of the other young men in the office are mates, and they often go to the wizarding pub in Tutshill after work and drink a few butterbeers.

At nine o'clock, though, Hermione feels the first flutters of worry around her heart. It's been dark for hours. Even allowing for a stop at the Tattered Tail, Ron should've been home at _least_ two hours ago, and it isn't like him to disappear without warning. Not since the battle last year when each thought the other had died – ever since then, he calls and tells her when he will be sigificantly late. The pub thing is one; this is quite another, and Hermione paces the rooms of their small Birmingham flat.

At nine-fifteen, with rain gently spattering against the window, she calls one of Ron's friends from work, Nicholas Kennicott. Kennicott tells her that Ron left work at the usual time, and does his awkward best to comfort her, joking about Ron being in the doghouse, and hiding at his mother's. She says goodbye, unease roiling in her stomach, and thinks for a moment. There's no point in calling Molly Weasley yet; Molly will bustle and soothe and make things worse. Breathing deeply, clenching down her rising fear, Hermione twirls a lock of hair around one finger, deciding who to call next.

On a hunch, she flings more Floo powder into the fire, calling loudly and clearly, "Ron Weasley!" She leans into the fire, bracing for the spinning sensation, but nothing happens. Hermione waits, counting to ten to be sure. No, nothing is happening, and nothing will happen. Ron is somewhere where the Floo Network can't reach him.

She knows what to do now. Hermione grabs one last handful of Floo powder from the bucket by the hearth and tosses it into the flames, saying, "Remus Lupin!" When she comes to a stop, she is staring into Lupin's tiny, shabby flat. Remus sits in his worn easy chair, reading a book by the firelight.

"Professor Lupin," she says, amazingly steadily.

He looks up, closes the book and sets it aside. "Hermione. Is there –"

"Ron hasn't come home," she says, the words rushing out of her. "I talked to his friend Nick and he says he left work at four, but he hasn't come home yet, and he's not anywhere on the Floo Network."

Lupin frowns. "Have you called Molly yet?"

"I don't want to worry her. I thought –" Hermione pauses, unsure what she thinks. "I wanted to call you first. It's not like him not to _call_ at the very least. Did he – has he –"

"I haven't heard anything, Hermione," Lupin says, reassuringly. "I'll see if anyone has heard from him. Call Harry and ask him to stay with you. I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thank you," she says, and he nods.

* * *

She doesn't call Harry. Harry is leaner now, angrier, after the abrupt end to their search for the Horcruxes. He's even more restless, short-tempered and moody. If she calls him, he will come over, and pace, and possibly shout, and she doesn't feel like dealing with Harry in one of his rages. 

Instead, she calls the Burrow, asking if Ginny will stay the night. A few minutes later, Ginny appears in Hermione's fireplace.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Ron hasn't come home," Hermione says, unwilling to use the word "missing" just yet. "I called Professor Lupin. He's got people looking for him. We're . . . waiting."

Ginny nods. They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, staring off into the silence that gathers around them. Hermione is still in her work robes and her nylons are itching. Ginny curls up against the arm of the sofa, every now and then shifting slightly.

They wait. Unexplained absences are suspicious even in the Muggle world. In the wizarding world, they're worse. Voldemort is rising, ascendant, and Ron has a target painted on his back. There is no reason that Ron wouldn't come home, Hermione repeats to herself, if it were even remotely possible for him to do so.

Hermione's thoughts are chasing each other in weary circles, when they haven't gone totally still. At one point her brain spits out, _I felt a funeral in my brain, and mourners, to and fro_; and she scoffs. She doesn't even like Dickinson.

Some time before four o'clock in the morning, the fireplace gives off a burst of green sparks. Remus Lupin's head appears in the fire, and Hermione can tell by looking what he is going to say.

"No one's heard anything, Hermione," Remus says, looking grave. Hermione realizes Ginny is hovering over her left shoulder, as desperate for details as she. "You should try to get some sleep, Hermione. We'll tell Molly and Harry in the morning and then report his case."

Ginny makes a small spitting noise of disgust. "The Ministry's packed full of Death Eaters. They're not going to look for Ron."

"No, Ginny, but the entire Order is looking for Ron – the entire Order. We will find him," Lupin says, and Hermione wants to believe him.

"Sleep, both of you," he adds in his professor voice, looking from Ginny to Hermione. "Sleep, and some chocolate. I'll be by around nine."

* * *

Hermione digs some spare sheets out of the linen closet and makes up a bed for Ginny on the sofa. She sleeps, uneasily, but she does not rest, snapping awake at eight in the morning. In the living room, Ginny is lying on the sofa, curled on her side, eyes bloodshot. 

"I couldn't sleep," Ginny says without sitting up. The shadows under her eyes look like bruises on her fair skin.

"I don't blame you," Hermione says, and walks into the kitchen nook to cajole the coffee maker into working today.

"Ron didn't call," Ginny says, failing at sounding offhand. Hermione knows this is why Ginny stayed up, not because she couldn't sleep, but because she didn't want to miss it if her brother called. She turns miserably to the coffeepot, listening to the gurgling sounds of the coffee perking.

Remus taps on the door promptly at nine. They are both ready, waiting for him. Hermione feels bleary, muzzy, unfocused and she can't bring herself to care.

Arthur Weasley answers the door when the three of them arrive at the Burrow, and from the drawn look he wears when he answers the door, Hermione knows he knows. Arthur leads them through the living room, around the corner into the kitchen, and says, "Visitors, Molly."

"Oh, Hermione!" Molly says, standing up, exuberant, and reaching to hug Hermione. "How nice to see you this morning! And – oh, Ginny, back already? What are you – and Remus too! Goodness!" Her eyes go narrow with suspicion, although her voice is plaintive as she asks her husband, "Arthur, what's going on?"

There is a moment of hesitation as each of them dares to be the one to say it, and Hermione watches Mrs. Weasley's face crumple even before she says, "Mrs. Weasley – Molly – Ron never came home last night from work. He left work, but he didn't – he never made it home."

For a moment, Molly Weasley's face is fearfully blank. Then she smoothes it over, trying for neutral but landing on worried. _She's used to this_, Hermione thinks. _She's been expecting this since Voldemort came back_. Ron told her once of the losses his mother suffered during the First War. Mary Prewett is a veteran of the homefront.

"We're still looking for him, Molly," Lupin says. "The whole Order. It hasn't even been a day yet. It could just be that he grabbed one of the Quaffles that was changed into a Portkey, and he's on his way home from the Sahara even now."

Her eyes are bright, but Mrs. Weasley's voice is steady. "I'm sure that's it. I appreciate that you're looking for him, Remus."

Remus nods. "It's the least that I can do."

"Are you sure you won't have some breakfast before you go? I made some banana bread last night. Ginny, you look like you could use some. Are they feeding you right at Hogwarts?"

Ginny looks down and mumbles something like "I'm fine, Mum." Hermione catches her rolling her eyes.

Smiling, Lupin says, "I'm afraid we have other places to visit this morning, Molly, though I appreciate the offer. Do save some of that bread for me."

"I'll walk you all out," Arthur volunteers.

"Good day, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione says, and they leave. Arthur Weasley follows them out the front door, closing it behind them. Absently kicking aside a lonely wellie, he tells Remus, "When you go to report Ron – that he's not come home – I'm going with you."

"Of course, Arthur."

"He's my son," Mr. Weasley says, and Hermione looks away from the taut pain on his face. "He's my son. I –" Remus nods at him, and without saying anything further Arthur Weasley opens the door of the Burrow and steps inside. For the moment that the door is open, they can all hear gasping, screaming sobs from inside.

Molly Weasley is a veteran of the homefront.

* * *

They Apparate next to Harry's flat in Holborn; he refuses to live in Grimmauld Place, instead taking a small, inconspicuous walk-up. Hermione, puffing slightly, raps on his door, five quick taps. From inside they hear some thumping, a muffled oath, and then Harry says, "Hold on!" 

He pulls the door open, hair mussed every way, glasses crooked on his nose, wearing only a pair of track pants. In her peripheral vision, Hermione sees Ginny go a delicate shade of pink. Harry blinks at them, confused, and starts to ask, "What –?"

"Hello, Harry," Remus says from behind Hermione. "Mind if we come in?" Harry stands aside, and the three of them file into his flat. Ginny carefully looks everywhere but at Harry. He looks down, grunts, and mutters, "Hang on. Sit down. I'll be right back."

They sit, almost in unison, on the blue futon Harry has shoved crookedly against one wall. The flat is less than homey, minimally decorated and furnished with little more than a few pieces from Ikea. Harry returns, wearing a West Ham t-shirt Hermione suspects she last saw on Dean Thomas. Ginny flushes again when she sees the shirt.

"So?" Harry asks, standing in the hallway. "What is it?"

Hermione opens her mouth to speak and finds she can't say it. Remus, mercifully, says, "Harry, Ron did not come home last night. Hermione spoke to a co-worker who said Ron left work at four, and no one has seen him since. The Order is looking for him, and –"

Harry's face is going dark, brows knotting together. _Here it comes_, Hermione thinks. She feels Ginny bracing beside her.

"So that's it, then?" Harry roars at top volume. "My best friend is _gone_ and all you can say is that the Order is _looking_ for him? Your precious Order! They've certainly done a lot of good so far! I'm sure they'll do a great job _not finding Ron!_"

"The Order includes several Aurors, Harry. They have already spent all night looking for him."

"Oh, yeah, cause Aurors are so great. Just because your _girlfriend_ is an Auror, you forget that the Aurors couldn't find a _barn_ if they were _looking at it_ –"

"Please don't bring Nymphadora into this, Harry."

Harry turns away, swearing, and starts on another tack. "This is about me, isn't it? He was taken because of me. You have to let me get out there and fight him. You have to let me find the Horcruxes. Instead, we're all just rolling over and letting Voldemort win while Hermione wastes time trying to 'research' where Voldemort might have stashed the Horcruxes now –"

"Harry!" Hermione protests, stung by his words.

"You have to let me out there! You have to let me go make this right! He'd be home right now if it weren't for me –"

"Shut up!" Ginny bounces to her feet, turning the same purplish-red color Ron does when angry. "Not everything is about you, Harry Potter! Did you ever think that Ron might have been taken just because he was good, and loyal, and brave –"

"What do you –"

"_He's my brother!_" Ginny shrieks. "I've known him since I was born – I grew up with him! What right do _you_ have to go racing after Voldemort to avenge him? It's _my_ right – mine and Bill and Charlie and Fred and George's!"

Harry reacts as if he's been slapped in the face. Remus stands, hands held out placatingly, and then Ginny plummets to the futon. "Oh," she says, "oh."

Harry leans against the wall, although Hermione thinks he has fallen against the wall from shock. Hermione looks down at her lap, and unclenches her fists. "Harry," she says, voice trembling.

He looks at her, frowning. "What?"

"Don't –" she says, and her voice fails completely. She tries again. "Don't –" _Don't do anything stupid_, she wants to say, _don't go rushing after Voldemort and get yourself killed and then I'll have to deal with losing both of my best friends. Don't be so thick. Don't die_, she thinks, _because then I'll have nothing left_, and she bursts into tears.

Hermione isn't sure, later, how long she cries. She feels Ginny, tentatively, pat her on the back. Harry, when she looks up, has the same bewildered expression he always gets when she cries.

"You're so _stupid_," she tells him, not for the first time. "You're thick as a post. If you go after Voldemort, that's just what he wants you to do. You'll get yourself _massacred_."

"I –"

"I _need_ you," she continues, looking down at her lap. "Because it's _Ron_ that's gone."

When she looks up again, Harry is staring up at her with what she calls his Gryffindor Hero look, that painfully mature look that seemed out of place on him when he was eleven, but is a better fit now at eighteen.

"All right," he says, "all right."

She blows her nose, messily, on Remus's handkerchief.

* * *

After a quick stop at the Burrow to swap Ginny for Arthur Weasley, the group Apparates back to Hermione and Ron's flat. Birmingham is misty today, foggy, and Hermione thinks to herself, _The fog comes on little cat feet_. She read through her mother's poetry shelf at age eight, even the poems she didn't understand, and lingering over the ones she thought were pretty. 

Hermione calls the Birmingham branch of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, and hesitantly tells them that she wants to report a missing wizard. A few minutes later, she hears a knock on the door. After checking the peephole, she opens the door to greet an older wizard dressed in somber dark-blue robes. He introduces himself as Constable Erkens and takes a seat on Hermione's sofa. Pulling out a parchment and a Self-Inking Quill, he starts to question Hermione.

Erkens asks about Ron's vital statistics, about his job and hers, about Ron's friends and enemies, his social habits and relationships. Hermione answers everything she can, Mr. Weasley stepping in when she forgets something. He takes it all down, and then gruffly tells Hermione that her case will likely be assigned to a detective, who will be in touch. She thanks him and lets him out, knowing that whoever is assigned to Ron's case will be utterly no help.

From there the day passes in something of a haze. At some point she remembers to call her boss, apologizing for not showing up and explaining her situation. Phaedra understands and gives her until the New Year off, paid. During the afternoon Hermione asks Ginny to come over, and they drive over to the nearby Tesco so Hermione can buy groceries. She pushes the trolley up and down the aisles, barely seeing the shelves, putting things in the trolley more or less at random. Some things Ginny sighs and pulls back out.

The numbness is starting to set in now, an insulating shock. _Thirty-one hours since I last saw Ron_, she thinks. _Twenty-three hours since I realized he was missing_.

At four o'clock, she goes to bed.

* * *

Hermione does not wake until six o'clock the next evening. She comes out of the bedroom, feeling drained, and finds Ginny on her sofa, eating a bowl of cold cereal and working her way through a lurid romance novel. "You missed the detective from the MLES," Ginny says, thumbing a page in her book. "He called earlier. I took his card." She points to the kitchen counter. Hermione picks up the card, a little white thing bearing the name "Detective Inspector Dennis Lawlor" and his office hours. "He wants you to call him the next time he's in the office." 

Hermione nods. "Ron hasn't –?"

"I would have woken you up if he had," Ginny says crossly.

Hermione nods again, rubs her forehead. Today is December 23, two days since Ron went missing. Two days until Christmas, and there is something . . . With an unpleasant jolt, she remembers that she and Ron were scheduled to go over to her parents' house for Boxing Day. Ginny finishes eating, and the two of them Apparate to Loughborough.

Her parents react as well as can be expected to the news. Her father tries to laugh it off, cracking jokes about Ron getting "cold feet" and "holidaying in Sicily" to cheer her up. Her mother looks at her with that sad expression that says she understands what Hermione is going through, or at least she thinks she does. Hermione doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or scream at their cloying concern, and finally she invents a story about leaving the cooker on at her flat and flees.

She returns to the flat, standing on the tiny balcony attached to the living room and crying, tears rolling steadily down her chin and onto her collar. She swipes at her eyes every now and then, but mostly she just lets the tears fall. It's cold on the balcony, and she's only wearing a jumper over a turtleneck. She stands, hands tucked in by her sides, and tries not to shiver.

Eventually, she stops weeping. Ginny comes out onto the balcony and hands Hermione a mug of tea. She has wrapped herself in the bright orange Chudley Cannons throw Ron insisted on draping over the sofa, and cannonballs are merrily speeding back and forth around her body. She leans against the French door with a thump, making the glass rattle, and says, "This is rubbish."

Hermione doesn't say anything. She takes a sip of the tea, which is steamingly hot: Ginny's put too much sugar in, but she'll drink it anyway.

"I don't know how you _stand_ it," Ginny says. It seems to have burst out of her. "Not knowing. If it were Harry –"

"If it were Harry, everything would be over," Hermione says. A wave of weariness moves over her. "I'm going back to bed."

* * *

She sleeps, drifting in and out of a doze, until eleven the next morning, when a noise from the living room startles her fully awake. Hermione remembers, groaning, that today is Christmas Eve. She and Ron had planned to spend the day together; their presents are waiting for each other, wrapped, underneath the small Christmas tree in the living room. _I can't do it_, she thinks. _I can't go through with this._

Hermione is trying to go back to sleep when she hears a loud crash from the living room. Wrapping a dressing gown around herself, she goes out to investigate and finds Tonks sprawled on the kitchen floor, half the contents of the kitchen cabinets around her, and grinning sheepishly. "Wotcher, Hermione?" Tonks says.

"Tonks?" Hermione asks.

Carefully, Tonks picks herself up off the floor. "Sorry, Hermione," she says. "I was trying to get a cup down when I knocked the whole kit down. Then I tripped and fell – did I wake you?"

"A bit."

"Sorry. I'll just have all this lot put – _away!_" Tonks cries, waving her wand in a sweeping gesture. Cups, glasses and mugs fly back into the cabinets.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asks.

"I thought you might not want to be alone, so I brought videos and ice cream." Tonks opens the freezer to show it stocked with chocolate ice cream.

"Oh, _Tonks_," Hermione says.

Tonks grins and makes a face at her. "You're welcome."

The day passes in a haze of films and popcorn. Tonks, Hermione notices, has rented mostly comedies, a mix of British comedies and some of the more recent American comedies. Tonks's distraction does work, because at times she goes several minutes in a row without thinking about Ron. She eats the ice cream, and a bar of Honeydukes' that Tonks brought over, and thinks that Ron would love Jim Carrey.

In the evening, Tonks leaves, and Hermione hasn't been alone fifteen minutes before there is a knock on the door. She opens the door, and Harry is standing there, his hands in his pockets and a broody expression on his face. "Oh, Harry," she says. "What are you doing here?"

He stares at the welcome mat outside her door. "It's Christmas. You shouldn't be alone."

"It's Christmas _Eve_," she points out. "And I'm fine." She narrows her eyes. "Did Lupin ask you to come?" Harry doesn't answer, but he shuffles his feet a little. She rolls her eyes. "It's okay to leave me alone for a few minutes at a time. Honestly."

"You're not the only one that misses him, Hermione," Harry says, meeting her eyes, just for a moment.

"Oh, all right," she says, and lets him in.

They end up working their way through a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey that Ron received for his eighteenth birthday from the twins, took a sip of, and never touched again. It's hideous stuff that burns the entire way down. After her first shot, she starts diluting the Firewhiskey with water, but Harry is taking his neat, evidently set on getting rip-roaring drunk. Before the hour is up, Hermione is pleasantly giggly, like she's had a few too many butterbeers, and Harry is on the verge of incomprehensibility. They are reminiscing about the Hogwarts days, and everything is riotously funny. Harry tells the story of Draco Malfoy, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret, and Hermione laughs until she cries, then she hiccups and rather gleefully tells the story of how she slapped Draco Malfoy, and Harry laughs so hard he falls over, and suddenly Hermione realizes how much more fun they'd be having if Ron were here.

"Oh, Harry," she says, mournfully. "What are we going to do without him?"

He slams his glass down so hard on the coffee table that Firewhiskey slops over the sides. "Don't say that," he says, and Hermione almost starts snickering again at how it sounds more like _Donzzzaydat._ "He's not gone yet."

She puts her glass down, not quite so giggly anymore, and wonders if that's really a headache she feels or if her brain's just combusting from all the Firewhiskey.

"Oh, _damn,_" Harry says. "Oh, _bugger_."

She pours herself half a shot of Firewhisky, straight, and drinks it as quickly as she can stand. "Happy _ruddy_ Christmas."

* * *

Christmas at the Weasleys' passes in a series of pinpricks, everyone trying to pretend this is a normal day and failing horribly. She and Harry are both only slightly hungover, thanks to some hastily-cast Sobriety Charms, and the headache makes her irritable. The twins, she notes, also look suspiciously queasy. 

The house is packed full of Weasleys, like it used to be when she visited over Hogwarts summers. Bill and Fleur are there, Bill talking Quidditch with his brothers while Fleur helps Molly in the kitchen. Hermione watches Harry and Ginny maintaining a ten foot distance – their relationship is off again, she has confirmed with Ginny – and smothers a smile. Fred and George are trying to be themselves, cheerily cracking jokes and trading one-liners, but Hermione sees the worry in their eyes. Percy is notable only by his absence.

Molly Weasley's eyes are red as she serves the Christmas ham, and Hermione rather uncharitably thinks that it's surprisingly tactful of Fleur not to mention this (although, judging by some muttered comments, her sister-in-law does not share this sentiment.) Conversation over the dinner table is strained, unnatural, until Charlie surprises them all by showing up halfway through dinner, dusty and rumpled. "Charlie!" his mother exclaims, hugging him while he grins. "We weren't expecting you!"

"You didn't think I'd miss this, did you?" he asks. "I've been Flooing my way across Europe since Ron – since Tuesday. Got stuck for a while in Slovenia, didn't think I was going to make it out, but here I am."

Dinner is considerably more cheerful after that. After dinner comes the handing round and opening of presents, and everyone carefully doesn't look at the small pile of presents labeled _Ron_ and _Percy_ under the tree. Hermione is a bit surprised at the volume of presents she receives; it seems like everyone from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley on down have gotten her something. Harry rather thoughtfully gives her a book on numerology, while Ron's brothers and sister give her various types of Honeydukes candy. Hermione unwraps the gift box from Mrs. Weasley, first lifting out the usual mince pies and fudge, and then her first Weasley jumper – azure blue, and bearing a large H on the front. For a moment all Hermione can do is blink at it, painfully.

Mrs. Weasley sees Hermione holding her jumper and says, gently, "Well, you're going to be a member of the family, dear. I thought it would match your ring."

Hermione swallows a few times, unable to speak. Her engagement to Ron is only a few weeks old, not known beyond the family and Harry. Finally, she manages to say, "Thank you."

Molly Weasley nods. "You're welcome, dear."

Before Hermione leaves that evening, Molly gives her Ron's jumper as well. Hermione cries herself to sleep clutching it.

* * *

After Christmas, life gets back into something approaching a rhythm for Hermione. She meets with Detective Inspector Lawlor, who confirms that he hasn't been able to find out anything more than the Order has. She sees a glum New Year's in, alone, and goes back to her job at Lucidus Books the following Monday. Phaedra, her boss, manages to act normal, but the other research editors pity her and patronize, and Hermione hates being patronized. She spends an hour her first day back crying in the loo. After a week, she moves her engagement ring, white gold with a sapphire stone, to a chain around her neck, and is less than surprised at how quickly she stops being the one whose fiancé is missing, poor dear. 

Remus Lupin at first gives her weekly updates on the status of the Order's search, but after the third time he calls her only to tell her that no one's found anything, she crabbily asks him to call her only when they _have_ found something. Lawlor calls her around the middle of the month to tell her that Ron's case has been kicked "upstairs" – to the Aurors. Kingsley Shacklebolt gets himself assigned to the case, sparing Hermione from having to share the details of her life with someone like Dawlish.

This version of her life is almost becoming normal to Hermione, settling in as The Way Things Are. Her life, built before on Ron's presence, is now built on his absence. She feels like she's living in suspended animation, like there is a layer between her and the world. Anything, even seeing something like an advert for Quality Quidditch Supplies in the _Daily Prophet_, will set off a crying jag that lasts, sometimes, for hours.

Her covert work for Harry, searching through Lucidus's files for mentions of Horcruxes and how to destroy them – for they still haven't figured this out – slams to a halt. Anything that doesn't have to do with waiting for Ron stops. She stops attending Order meetings, stops going to her weekend book club, sometimes thinks about stopping existance.

She's tired of living like this. Tired of the uncertainty and the holes she can't seem to fill. Definitely, she thinks as she takes out the trash, tired of crying. The flat that was cozy for two is empty with just one, but she finds herself staying home as much as possible (_what if Ron comes home, I should be here in case he comes home_). Sometimes she's convinced that Ron is dead, other times she is convinced that he is alive.

Her mother, worried, takes to calling her every day, and every day Hermione tells her that she is "fine." She's not fine, she thinks, when she takes an objective look at her life. She's barely eating, living mostly on the frozen dinners she buys at Tesco. Her hair is bushier than ever because she can't be bothered to do much more than wash it. This isn't a life, she admits, just a wait.

January crawls past, melting into February. Hermione crosses off the days on a wall calendar and adds the days on an internal ticker. _Forty-six days since Ron went missing . . . forty-seven . . . forty-eight_ . . .

She wonders if she'll still be keeping count at a hundred days, a thousand days.

* * *

On February 18, Hermione is in the middle of heating up a frozen curry when she hears a knock on the door. 

She answers the door to find Remus Lupin standing there. He meets her eyes, and hesitates, and in that instant, she knows what he is going to say. Knows that her wait is over, as is her engagement, and her life as she knows it.

"May I come in, Hermione?" he asks politely.

She closes her eyes. "No. Oh, don't, _don't_, no, don't –"

"Hermione," he says, and the leaden weight in the word makes her eyes fly open again. "Hermione, we found – we found Ron. He was –"

Lupin is saying more, continuing to speak, but the words aren't reaching her ears: a bell is tolling inside her head, deafening her to everything outside.

She falls, weeping.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Hermione quotes two separate poems in this piece -- "I felt a funeral in my brain" by Emily Dickinson (www . bartleby . com / 113 / 4112 . html) and "Fog" by Carl Sandburg (www . bartleby . com / 104 / 76 . html). 


End file.
